


Voracious

by Kadigan



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A.I. Feels, Action/Adventure, Alone Against A.I.M., Arc Reactor, Bot Feels, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Oh my god what’s happened to Tony?, Pepper Potts: professional badass, Rhodey is the world's best bro, Team, Technovore - Freeform, Tony Feels, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kadigan/pseuds/Kadigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The encounter with Technovore left Tony a little more battered than he’d like to admit. (Tag for EMH episode 2.02.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Questionable UI Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my betas-and-writing-buddies szzzt and MountainRose. You guys rock.

Technovore lunges across the hallway and crashes into Tony like a freight train. Its weight slams his back into the floor, knocking all the air out of him, but terror gives him the strength to grab at its forelimbs anyway. _It's a glorified wipe utility,_ he thinks hysterically. _It's built to clear hard drives. Why the hell is it so_ heavy? The thing hisses above him, shooting ice down his spine, and he wrenches at its claws with everything he has.

It takes absolutely no notice of his struggling. Instead it rears above him for a moment, snarling like sheet metal being shredded underwater. Questing rasp-tipped probes unfurl from its lampreylike maw, taste the air, and plunge into Tony's reactor.

They might as well have torn straight into his heart. Fire explodes outwards from the reactor, igniting every nerve in his body, and Tony howls in agony as Technovore worms its way inside him. He can _feel_ the tendrils wriggling, gnawing at the delicate mechanisms, making the housing judder in his ribcage. His vision goes white with the pain, or maybe that's just the searing light of the core sparking against open air. His heart seizes, locked in electrical spasm. Something crackles deep in his chest. 

Then, somewhere, an impact -- red swept away by a flash of black and silver. Some distant fragment of lucidity recognizes it: _Maria._ She's knocked the thing off him.

But its probes are still wrapped deep inside the reactor, and it does _not_ want to let go. The wriggling rasps lock rigid, clawing into the reactor, and the tendrils are jerked taut against Technovore's full weight. Where the housing fuses into Tony's ribcage, bone and titanium screech a tortured duet, and something right between his shoulderblades pops sickeningly. He chokes and his back arches up off the floor, pure reflex fighting to ease the horrible pressure, but he's rewarded only with the burrowing agony of Technovore clawing deeper. It's wrenching his ribs apart, turning him inside-out, but still can't quite hold on; it falls aside and the rasps are dragged out of him, pulling all his innards with them as they go.

He must black out then, because when he comes back to himself he's lying huddled on his side, hands curled over the arc. His whole torso burns. Breathing hurts. The damaged reactor buzzes and sparks, little shocks pulsing through him every few seconds. He can't feel his toes. He can't think. How did he...

_Technovore._

The burst of adrenaline lets him roll himself most of the way upright before his chest seizes up and yanks him to a stop. He gasps, dropping back to one knee to clutch at the reactor. The headrush is slow to fade, but when his vision starts to clear, the first thing he can pick out is a slim figure in black -- a figure braced between him and the ominous haze of red.

"Maria," he gasps. Thank fuck. She's still standing. He can't have been out for long. They don't have much time. "Run! Get to the arc reactor, stop AIM." He drags himself a little farther upright, his voice cracking against the strain. "I'll hold off Technovore as long as I can."

She doesn't even look at him, keeping her pistol trained steady on the weaving nanotech beast. "You can barely stand." Another jolt shudders through him, and he can't keep from flinching; the glance she tosses him says that he's making her point for her. "I'm not leaving you."

There's no time to argue. Technovore rears above them, its whirr-chitter-growl rising to echo through his brain. Its camera iris whines delicately as it fixes on Tony. Even Maria flinches. Tony steels himself. If that thing hits him again... His pacemaker's half fried already, his heart staggering against his ribs. From the way the reactor's flickering, the core containment fields are also damaged. Say what you will about Tony's recklessness, but he _does not want to die,_ not from cardiac arrest and not in a blast of hot plasma --

But the thing doesn't charge. It weaves back and forth, hissing; its cameras turn aside to zoom deep on some point beneath their feet. With no more warning than that, it launches itself aside. The elevator doors buckle and melt before it.

Maria bolts after it. "Where's it going?"

"Down." The Tower's arc reactor is down there. _Rhodey's_ down there, with Cap and Panther and god only knows how many AIM goons. Tony staggers to the elevator doors to watch Technovore go: its spiralling descent is definitely the most surreal thing he's seen all day. "Did you bring your jet pack, by any chance?"

Her answering grin is positively _predatory._ She waves a compact little cable ascender. "I'm an agent of SHIELD. I'm prepared for anything."

Tony dredges up a smile and flings his aching body after her. The whole ride down, clinging to the too-small handle and counting the thumps of his straining heart, he still can't help but wonder... where was she _keeping_ that thing?

\---

The signs of Technovore's exit are really, really hard to miss. Cold-molten metal, warped by the passage of voracious nanites, has jabbed backwards into the elevator shaft. _There's gonna have to be some serious cleanup before these lifts will work again,_ Tony thinks, absently cataloguing the damage as Maria's ascender squeals to a stop. Adding up the cost in time, labor, and materials keeps his mind off the strain of hurling himself off Maria's back and through the wreckage of the elevator doors. It doesn't help much with the landing, though: the impact with the cement floor rockets up through his body to detonate in his spine and chest, and it's all he can do to stay conscious. Keeping his feet is out of the question.

Maria's boots hit the floor beside him, and he lifts tear-blurred eyes to see her extend a hand. "Stark?"

Between them, they manage to lift him back upright, and he takes stock of their surroundings. Dark concrete, utilitarian architecture. Yellow-suited corpses scattered like jacks, but he can ignore those for now: there are far better things in this room. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "Over there," he rasps, pointing to one of the nearest armor cases.

"Technovore went _that_ way." Maria frowns.

Yes, thank you, Acting Director Obvious; he's neither blind nor stupid. (The gaping hole in the concrete is kind of a dead giveaway.) "Yeah-huh. 'N the Suit's over _there."_

For once, she doesn't argue further, instead wrapping his arm around her shoulders and half-carrying him to his armor. It's a bit of a struggle to hold himself upright long enough for the assembly arms to do their work, but he manages. It'll be worth it.

...Oh, _fuck,_ is it ever worth it. The Suit's cuirass closes around his chest, its power couplings click gently into the arc reactor's ports, and just like that its medical systems come online. JARVIS murmurs in his ear, something about tokamak flux loss and sinoatrial feedback, but the AI has to know he's not paying full attention; the IV that J just planted in his wrist was full of pure, cool _relief,_ and with the couplings cycling up, the reactor's already quit shocking him. Yeah, Tony's head is clearer with the pain dulled, but the sudden respite is enough to make it swim all over again. He sags against the chestplate, breath whooshing out of him, and just... rests for a minute.

Eventually, JARVIS' voice calls him back. _"Sir?"_

He sucks in a long slow breath. The hurt is distant, muted, but it's still there. J, bless his motherboard, hasn't given Tony the Good Stuff -- they both know he still has to fight today. "Yeah," he rasps. "M'here."

 _"Sir."_ The synthetic voice sounds relieved, but only for the space of that one word. _"Your arc reactor is badly damaged. You should--"_

"--go fix it right now, yeah, I know." He squeezes his eyes shut, then makes himself open them again. "Can't. Rhodey's..."

 _"I know, sir."_ JARVIS has 'affectionately exasperated yet resigned' down to a science, Tony thinks numbly. How did he ever make someone so damn awesome? _"The Iron Man armor's power couplings and medical systems can be used to stabilize the reactor's core containment and your heart function. Such stability is projected to last no more than ninety minutes, but that time should be sufficient to aid Colonel Rhodes and return to the mansion."_

"Yeah." Tony smiles, and for the first time since the scarlet apparition battered down his office door, it's genuine. "Thanks, J."

 _"However,"_ and J's tone edges back up towards 'worried' and 'foreboding', _"sensors also indicate a posterior dislocation of your left third rib. The resultant misalignment of the reactor housing is --"_

"Yeah." Tony knows. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, burned it symbolically first chance he got. "Can you set it?"

_"In theory, the new anti-G system could be used to apply the correct force, but --"_

"JARVIS. _Can_ you _set_ it."

The AI hesitates. _"Yes, sir."_

Tony leans his weight forward, letting the armor hold him up, and rests his forehead on the helmet's frontal cushion. "Then hit me."

JARVIS doesn't answer, but the Suit leans Tony farther forward, then locks its joints all around him with a wave of tiny clicks. When the anti-G pressure gel in the cuirass hums into life and begins prodding gently at his upper back, Tony grits his teeth and braces himself.

 _"Deep breath, sir,"_ JARVIS instructs after a long moment's painful poking, _"and breathe all the way out --"_ but Tony misses anything else the AI might have said, because just as his lungs empty the Suit _stabs him in the spine,_ right at the locus of the pain, and something right against his vertebrae pops horribly. He'd screech if he had the air for it. The armor pins his flailing limbs.

After that, though, the relief is nearly instant. The tight knot at the middle of his back melts away; the reactor port settles in his chest, releasing the burning pull on his ribs. He'd drawn breath to swear, but instead he lets it out in a rush, reveling in the lesser sting of damaged reactor connections. "Oh God, J. Don't _ever_ do that again."

 _"Gladly, sir. In return, might I request that you refrain from causing yourself further dislocations? The anti-G system is most certainly_ not _designed to handle orthopaedic emergencies."_

"Shit, don't make me laugh," Tony gasps, but he's grinning. "Still hurts."

_"I wouldn't dream of it, sir."_

JARVIS finally boots the display cameras, opening the HUD properly. Tony lets out one more breath (feels the armor compensate with him, cuirass easing the motion) and steps out of the armor case. The Suit smoothes his movements, supports him, lets him walk with confident grace; even with the reactor still flickering, the casual observer would never know he's not 100%. 

Maria's there, still standing in front of the case; her arms are folded and she's eyeing him narrowly, probably wondering what took him so long. "Good to go," he grins, popping the faceplate. "You go through the hallways, get this to Steve. I'll follow Technovore and Rhodey."

She turns her skepticism on the shield-generator cuff that he's just shoved into her hands, but quickly looks back up at him and just nods. "Move, Stark" is all he gets, tossed back over her shoulder as she turns and lopes away.

"Yeah, yeah." Move. Pfft. He's suited up now. In this thing, he can _fly._

\---  
\------  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exists because I couldn't believe, with so much well-written Tony-whump on AO3, that there was nothing much with EMH's Technovore. There's also a fair bit of Marvel movieverse in it, because I may or may not adore movie-JARVIS a bit, and also because headcanon.
> 
> This piece is already written except the last hundred words or so, and I'll post at least one chapter per week until it's finished. About darn time I finished something, heh.


	2. Wipe Protocol

When Tony bursts into the reactor chamber, nobody notices him at first. This is both concerning and a little annoying. Hello, giant fuckoff red-and-gold exoskeleton here; he’s not exactly inconspicuous. And he doesn’t see any AIM goons left standing. What’s got his team so occupied that they don’t even spot him?

Metal clangs on concrete, and his eyes snap to the source. Rhodey. He’s on the floor, pinned under Technovore’s weight. The probes are buried in War Machine’s arc reactor, gnawing at the delicate mechanisms. He’s grabbing for Technovore’s forelimbs, wrenching at its claws with everything he has --

Tony can actually feel his pupils dilate. That’s novel.

“Get -- _off_ \-- me!” Rhodey twists under Technovore’s weight, shoving at it with all the War Machine’s strength. His snarl is strained and furious, but -- but it isn’t pained. He’s pissed off, not hurt. Because _his_ arc isn’t stuck through his breastbone -- _what the hell, Stark?! You knew that, knew he’s okay, but he_ won’t be _if you don’t get off your ass right_ now --

\-- so bootjets, repulsors, 90% power to palms double-barrel right in the beast’s face, and he blasts it across the arc chamber. Watching it flop limp against the concrete ignites a warm, savage satisfaction beneath his reactor. “You heard the man.” Behind the helmet, he bares his teeth in something that could probably even be called a grin. “Down, boy!”

It shudders on the concrete, actually out of the game for a moment. Rhodey’s climbing back to his feet, looking up at him. Maria’s intact too, angry sardonic eyebrow and all. Cap actually looks impressed, and oh hey, there’s the shield cuff; good, that’s a weight off Tony’s mind. No stains on the black catsuit, not even when he filters out the obscuring purple glow of vibranium: yeah, Panther’s okay. His breath shudders out on the rush of relief, making his bad rib protest.

Technovore hisses, and he realizes it’s dragged one foot back under itself. Shit.

A flurry of finger-twitches, gaze gestures, and subvocal commands focus his HUD on the big arc reactor itself. The field projectors are dark and silent, but he’s reading magnetic flux consistent with their generators lying dormant; there’s no plasma in the coils, but a close zoom on one of the control panels shows the fuel gauge at 67%, and the pressure gauge on the reserve tanks agrees. It wouldn’t take much to get the old girl restarted. Unfortunately, that close zoom also gets him a good look at the countdown timer. He’s no slouch at defusing explosives, but not even he can work _that_ fast.

Gunmetal-gray in his peripheral vision; Rhodey whooshes up beside him. “So. What’s the plan?”

“Not enough time to disarm the bombs,” he muses.

“What _bombs?”_ The incredulity in his friend’s yelp jolts him out of his consideration, makes him zoom out from the reactor and focus on Rhodey. Impossible to read facial expressions through the helmet, but the guy’s voice and posture are both on-edge and a little pissed-off. “I was talking about that _thing!”_

Oh. Right. He follows Rhodey’s gaze; below them, the beast is crouched on all fours, hissing at them like a pressure leak. No reason they can’t handle both problems at once, though... “We’re gonna give Technovore exactly what it wants,” he realizes. “The arc reactor.” At the shocked inhale over the comms, he races to clarify: “Just not the one in my chest.”

Rhodey wants to demand details, he can practically _hear_ it, but there’s something else -- oh, shit, soldier reflexes, Rhodey’s dodged and Tony isn’t gonna be fast enough --

Deja vu: vision full of red, breathless pain, an inhuman grip he can feel even through the armor. The thing’s impossibly strong; its momentum’s set his verniers firing at full power just to keep them in the air, and wrenching at its grip in the Suit isn’t much better than trying with his bare hands.

Rhodey’s missiles knock it off him -- it’s vulnerable to surprise attacks. That’s interesting. The strength and durability are some kind of _active_ defense, and in what universe does _that_ make sense? The one where it also makes sense to give your _wipe utility_ a mouthful of horrifying tentacle probes, he guesses, because the tendrils are snapping straight back up to wrap around his ankles. He pulls up, trying to shake it off, and the thing just comes with him; its weight pulls the tendrils tight, trying to crush the greaves and drag him down.

A sustained double repulsor to the face doesn’t so much as faze it. Instead, more writhing probes lash his wrists together, forcing him to cut his fire or risk hitting his allies. There are no more missiles coming his way _(dammit, Rhodey),_ so he’s going to have to shake it off on his own. Well, no time like the present...

“JARVIS!” he calls, and rattles off his instructions. “Overload it!”

Maria objects. Of course she does. As long as she’s got the sense to trust him, he can work with it. She glares back at him, mutinous and scared, but doesn’t have time to argue much-- because right then, with a great buzz and crackle, the reactor ignites.

Unlike the miniaturized, shielded unit in Tony’s chest, the core of the Tower’s arc is open to the air: it’s designed that way, and Tony can’t claim that none of that was for effect. Startup means watching a whirling tower of Cherenkov light arise from a cloud of lightning that snaps and curls off the projectors as they cycle up. It’s pretty damn impressive. More to the point, it’s pretty damn eye-catching.

To the overgrown eraser below him, attuned as it is to arc technology, the reactor might as well be a mile-high beacon.

Tony can practically feel Technovore’s attention snap away from him. No, wait, he actually _can_ feel it: it’s the pinging sensation through his greaves and gauntlets as the pressure’s released and the thing’s weight falls away. It retracts the probes, mouth still gaping, and launches itself straight into the core. That godawful synthesized voice rings out even through the roaring wall of plasma -- “CON-SUME” -- as its probes snake out and start digging into the projectors. The clock’s ticking now: Tony has less than a minute to kill the thing before it does enough damage to break containment entirely. Time to go for it.

_Oh, this is gonna hurt..._

He lunges across the reactor floor and crashes into Technovore like a freight train. The impact rattles his teeth, rattles his own reactor in its housing, rattles the bad rib against his spine -- and then momentum carries them both forward, right into the hot plasma and high magnetic fields of the reactor core. Tony’s vision grays out for a second, and he can’t restrain a yelp, but he bites it off and grits his teeth. Technovore’s still off-balance, but that’s not going to last.

He twists around in mid-air, grabbing hold of the thing’s ridiculous horns and clamping his knees down to straddle it like a glowing digital bronco. It hardly seems to _notice_ him, too busy chewing on his reactor core. Well, if it wants dinner... “You hungry, monster?” he growls. “Then eat this! JARVIS, _now!”_

JARVIS’ acknowledgement flickers on his HUD, and the reactor's containment finally fails. The whine of the projectors rises, rises, until they’re screaming at the edge of hearing, and the plasma whirls impossibly faster. The radius’ll be spreading, too; he spares a fraction of a second to hope the team’s under good cover. Underneath him, Technovore is sucking greedily at the rush of power, its chassis actually swelling as it gorges itself. _Gotcha._

No more time to waste. He fires the bootjets, repulsors straining against the conflagration, to launch himself straight up and away from the core. If he’s fast enough, he can clear the vortex before --

It detonates.

A shock front, or maybe a rock wall, smashes him right out of the air. Tumbling helplessly, power lost, ears and brain buffeted by overpressure. Alerts and gauges screaming, almost as loud as his chest and back and limbs. Another wall crashes into him, this time from below -- the _floor_ \-- and even through the armor his shins protest the impact, but if he plays this right he can keep his feet under him -- ski-skid over the concrete, boot-edges striking sparks to light the maelstrom yellow, and God he hopes it stops before he screeches right into the wall...

The buffeting force fades and vanishes. His knees give way. One hand hits the floor with a _clang,_ and Tony sort of checks out for a minute.

He must not be out for long, because when he opens his eyes he’s still hunched on the concrete floor in an unsteady parody of his landing stance, and no one’s bent over him or shaking his armored shoulder. The other reason they might not have come yet isn’t even worth considering -- there was cover, Cap has a shield, so they’re okay -- but muddled concern echoes through his skull anyway, louder than the thunder of the not-a-concussion-shut-up-he’s-fine, and he manages to lift his head.

Armored feet on the concrete. _Rhodey._ Metal clinks on metal as the War Machine’s arm wraps around his shoulders, and then his friend is lifting him to his feet. It takes Rhodey popping his faceplate to remind Tony to do the same, but he’s getting quicker on the uptake. The heavy breath of ozone-laden air is worth it for a more direct look at Rhodey’s relieved, uninjured face.

“How did you know that wouldn’t set off the explosives?” Rhodey asks, still holding Tony up. Tony wants to sag with relief; the hands on his shoulders tell him that Rhodey can read him through the armor and knows he’s not exactly okay, but the breezy question doesn’t demand anything. It’s an invitation to technobabble, a tacit acknowledgement that Rhodey’ll help him out as soon as he’s ready to admit he needs it. Hell of a bro.

He’s not ready yet -- there’s still too much to do -- so he pulls himself back together, pasting on a cocky smirk. “Because they stole that design from me,” he crows. “I --”

Still too much to do. Loose ends. _They still have_ \-- “Pepper!”

He heaves himself out of Rhodey’s grip. Urgency straightens his back and steadies his hands. “They have hostages,” he announces to the rest of his (scorched but unhurt, good) teammates. “They have _Pepper._ She’s with the Scientist Supreme -- he was hacking my systems. JARVIS --!”

_“Security cameras near the west lobby show a large AIM contingent moving towards that exit. I do not yet have access to full-resolution imaging, but I believe Ms. Potts and the Scientist Supreme to be among them.”_

“West entrance,” Tony repeats, for anyone who doesn’t have JARVIS in his earbug. “Cap, Panther, Maria, overtake them from behind. Rhodey and I will cut them off at the exit.”

They don’t so much as question him; in seconds, everyone has bolted in their assigned direction. Thank God for his team.

\---

“It’s over!” Tony calls, sweeping down in a whine of repulsors. The last of the bee-suited goons bounces off Cap’s fist and hits the pavement, and with Rhodey and Tony between the AIM head honcho and his weird bubblemobile thingy, they’ve just about got this in the bag.

 _Just about..._ because Honcho is almost right, when he grabs Pepper and grinds the muzzle of his gun into her head. It doesn’t matter that there are two armored suits between him and his transit, or that his minions are lying groaning in the dirt. As long as he’s threatening Pepper’s life, he really does hold almost all the cards.

He doesn’t seem to have counted on Pepper herself, though.

For the first split second, while she’s still twisting in Honcho’s grip and his gun is still aimed at her head, Tony’s heart stops. _He could kill her with one finger, shit, please let her have startled him too much to shoot please_ please --

But then her elbow cracks across his hand, her heel slams into his solar plexus, and her fist snaps up in a textbook uppercut. Honcho yelps, groans, and collapses, the gun falling from his nerveless hand. Pepper looms over him, glowering, and slowly lowers her fist.

While she’s rubbing the life back into her elbow, Tony touches down softly behind her. He pops the faceplate; she meets his eye over her shoulder. “I expect this to be reflected in my bonus,” she informs him.

Whatever Tony did to deserve being associated with this woman, it must have been spectacular. “Done,” he murmurs.

For a second she’s appraising him, and he really hopes that she’s seeing his awed respect and not his fear -- or worse, the way he’s trembling inside the Suit -- but then she stiffens, whipping around to stare wildly at the downed yellow-suited bodies. “The hard drive -- all the data from the mainframe -- !”

“It’s okay, Miss Potts.” Cap gestures for calm with one broad hand and waves a yellow hard-drive enclosure with the other. “It’s safe. I’ve got it.”

The fight goes out of Pepper in one long sigh, and she tilts backwards into Tony’s arms. He catches her gently, and if he’s grinning like an idiot, no one can possibly hold it against him. Technovore’s down. Stark Tower’s safe, and so is the data. The Scientist Supreme of AIM is lying stupefied at Pepper’s feet.

Not bad for a day’s work.

Pep’s expression is changing, though, as she leans against the breastplate. She tilts her chin back to look Tony in the eye, frowning. “Tony? Why is your reactor buzzing?”

_Crap._ He plasters on a grin. “I’m a little beat up. No biggie, just gotta head home and do some tweaking.”

“Beat up?” Her voice jumps an octave, and she pushes away from his hands. “Oh my God, did that _thing -- ?!”_

“Technovore?” He winces. “Yeah, kinda did. But I’m fine -- ”

“It attacked you?” Cap’s suddenly right in his face, looking him up and down, one massive hand heavy on his left shoulder. If he weren’t suited up, that would probably _hurt_ right now. “My God, Stark, why didn’t you say something?”

“JARVIS and I have it under control,” Tony protests, stepping back out of Cap’s grip. His bad rib twinges at the motion; the painkillers must be wearing off. “I’ll --”

_“Sir, the voltage fluctuations --”_

“Just a second, JARVIS -- I’ll be fine, I just need to --”

“Why do I just not quite believe you?” Maria snarks.

_“Sir --”_

“Believe me or don’t, it’s your call,” Tony snaps back, “but I am not kidding. It’s under control; I’ll be totally fine if you just _let me go home and fix it.”_ The War Machine thumps down beside him, and he twists to face his friend. “Back me up here, dude. I’m --”

The reactor sparks, a brilliant flare of light that shoots an electric arc straight back through Tony’s chest. His heart seizes, then slams against the inside of his ribs. He chokes on his sentence, breath seared out of him, and locks the armor’s knees to keep from falling. _Shit shit shit --_

Metal clinks on metal, and Rhodey’s face is right in his. “Tony!”

He gasps something affirmative. JARVIS cuts him off, though, hijacking the Suit’s external speakers to address the whole group. _“Sir, the reactor’s power fluctuations are increasing steadily in magnitude, and my regulatory systems can no longer compensate fully. I am moderating the surges to the best of my ability, but you really should return to the Mansion as soon as possible.”_

“Master of understatement, J,” Tony bites out. His hand is clutching at the reactor -- useless, through all the layers of the breastplate, but he can’t seem to make it let go. “Autopilot?”

_“Available if necessary, Sir, but may I advise --”_

“ ‘S the fastest way --”

“So you’ll get there before anyone’s there to help you?” Rhodey’s grip on his shoulders shifts, the better to help keep him upright. “C’mon, man. Let us --”

“Quinjet’s too _slow,_ I won’t -- _hhgh!”_ The reactor shocks him again, and his involuntary flinch jolts the bad rib, _hard;_ it jabs at the reactor housing, making the whole thing shift in his chest and setting his torso aflame. His vision whites out for a second.

When he can see again, he’s huddled on his knees, right arm wrapped around his armored chest. The reactor’s flickering light washes the color out of Rhodey’s and Pepper’s faces and plays eerily across the others crowded just behind them. “--ony! Talk to me, Tony, are you --”

“Yeah,” Tony rasps, and then flinches at a smaller shock. Pepper covers her mouth with one hand. “Rhodey. Follow me back. Need my spare, n’you -- you can keep up.” Ignoring the chorus of objections, he pushes clumsily off one hand and staggers up to his feet. “J. Go.”

JARVIS doesn’t need any more clarification than that. The Suit stiffens around Tony as the AI takes over, disabling Tony’s normal controls in favor of full automatic pilot. Even with full flexibility, though, it wouldn’t be able to cushion him completely against the force of an all-out launch: when JARVIS takes off, acceleration _kicks_ Tony in the heels and hips and _spine,_ and he chokes on a curse. “Fff-! _J!”_

_“Hold on, Sir. ETA to the Mansion is less than five minutes. I am taking all available palliative measures in the meantime. Please try not to struggle.”_ True to his word, JARVIS brings the anti-G system back online, and a soft solid pressure clamps down on Tony’s upper chest and back. He chokes again, shaking with the effort of not fighting the painful grip; his heart staggers under another jolt of adrenaline. Something cold flushes through his veins from the IV in his wrist, and relaxing gets a little easier, the pain easing back slightly.

“Don’t -- don’t overdo it, J,” he grits out. “I still g--gotta do the -- swap --”

_“I have already alerted Mr. Barton; he is preparing for your arrival as we speak. Colonel Rhodes is pacing us as well. Both will be standing by to assist you as needed, and I shall of course advise them. Ms. Potts and the other Avengers will return shortly after we arrive, as Ms. Van Dyne is en route to Stark Tower with a quinjet.”_ The AI’s voice softens, and the pressure gel strokes gently down his uninjured flank. Tony’s muscles shiver and loosen under the touch; it’s the next best thing to a hug, coming from the person he trusts with so much more than his life, and it helps get his terrified lizard brain on board with being confined while he’s in this much pain. _“Even if you lost consciousness now, sir, you would be well cared-for.”_

A wavering smile quirks Tony’s lips. “Thanks,” he whispers. 

JARVIS says nothing, just keeps rubbing, slow and steady, up and down Tony’s side. Tony feels his back start to unknot a little under the AI’s ministrations. He breathes out and rests his forehead on the frontal cushion, trying to relax into it. If he can just let his breathing ease, let himself drift a little...

That, of course, is when the reactor decides to shock him again. All J’s hard work is erased in an instant; Tony jerks against the Suit’s restraining strength, and his entire body locks up again when he feels the bad rib shift in its socket. _“Ghk!”_

The pressure gel just keeps its grip, keeps stroking down his side. _“Do hold on, Sir. We’re almost there.”_

\---  
\------  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say one chapter a week? I meant at _least_ one chapter a week. Enjoy.


	3. Safety First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaat? Kadigan actually _finished_ something?! Well, as usual, I couldn't have done it without my betas; szzzt and MountainRose are both fantastic.
> 
> Enjoy!

When the Suit finally touches down in Tony’s workshop, the man inside it is barely clinging to consciousness. He hears the rush of wind through the entry tunnel, and he knows when the motion stops, but what really rouses him is the clang of metal boots on the hard workshop floor. JARVIS makes the gentlest landing the Suit’s probably ever managed, but not even that can keep the impact from jamming an ice pick into Tony’s spine. He snaps awake with a bitten-off yelp.

“Tony! Tony, you there?” Rhodey. Hands on his shoulders, trying to peer through the Suit’s eye-slits.

Tony twitches his chin to pop the faceplate. “Present,” he rasps.

“And still full of snark.” Clint appears behind Rhodey, his massive arms folded. He smirks. “Can’t be too far gone if you’re making bad jokes.”

Tony manages a weak smile, but before he can reply, the reactor sparks again and he twitches inside the armor. Rhodey’s hands come up to brace him -- unnecessary, with the Suit still on full auto, but he’s feeling enough like hell to appreciate the implied support. “Breathe, Tony.”

“Okay. Uh.” When Tony blinks his eyes back open, Clint’s shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “What do we do? What do you need us to do.”

Tony lifts his head a little, crafting his next few sentences for maximum semantic efficiency. “New arc...”

JARVIS, thankfully, takes over from there. _“Mr. Stark’s arc reactor is badly damaged; he must replace it immediately. I am retrieving a backup unit from storage as we speak, but removing it from my transport system will require either Mr. Stark’s authorization or Colonel Rhodes’. Colonel, the aperture on the wall to your right -- if you would?”_

Rhodey squeezes Tony’s shoulder (he can’t even feel it through the armor, but the gesture’s everything) and heads for the wall. “Mr. Stark will need to lie down for the reactor replacement,” JARVIS continues. “Mr. Barton, please assist him to the couch.”

Once Clint’s got his arm under Tony’s, J turns off the autopilot and the Suit softens around Tony, flexing with his movements again. He staggers, off-balance, and stumbles into Clint. “Whoa!” the archer yelps. He grabs Tony’s arm, tugging it over his shoulders, and starts walking them both couchwards. “Jeez, dude, you weigh a _ton_ in this thing. Ever consider losing some of the flab?”

Tony blinks away the calculations of just how much weight Clint is actually carrying right now -- a hell of a lot, even when Tony straightens up as much as he can; Barton's _strong_ for a human -- and dredges up a little smile. “S’all muscle.”

“Yeah, well, all that _muscle_ is gonna have to get friendly with the sofa before it breaks my collarbones. C’mon, down.”

Between them, they get Tony stretched out on the couch, which only creaks a little under the armor’s weight. (It’s built to hold the entire team. Even with Tony inside, the Suit doesn’t weigh _half_ of what the Hulk does.) The arc’s light flickers spasmodically against the ceiling.

"Okay. Uh." Clint looks up to the ceiling. "How do I get him out of this thing?"

_“I can release the armor at a voice command from Mr. Stark. However, removing the suit will not be without risk, at this point,”_ JARVIS admits, _“and as such it is advisable to minimize the time between removal of the armor and replacement of the reactor.”_

_Master of understatement, J, master of understatement._ Tony closes his eyes, gritting his teeth against another shock. If the reactor is sparking so wildly as to shock him even _with_ the Suit to buffer the surges, then he doesn’t even want to know how bad it’ll be once he takes the armor off. Not to mention that the anti-G system’s steady pressure is probably the only reason he hasn’t re-dislocated his rib. Leaving the armor on isn’t an option, though: the reactor will only keep deteriorating, and it can’t be removed without taking off the chestplate.

Still, though. “Could lose the helmet,” he rasps, rolling his head a little. "N'gauntlets."

JARVIS doesn’t reply, but the locks at Tony’s throat and chin click open. Steady archer-hands slip the helmet off, and Tony’s head tips back onto the couch cushions.

He offers Clint a half-smile as the gauntlets follow, but it shatters when the reactor shocks him _again,_ and this time his heart stumbles in earnest. For an interminable few seconds, he’s gasping uselessly for breath, gray blotches splattering his vision, before the sparks subside and his heart starts to settle. When he comes back, his fingers are wrapped feebly around the edge of the cushions, and Clint’s head is turned to yell over his shoulder:

“--ainting the Mona Lisa over there, _move_ it! Stark’s not looking so hot!”

Some muffled cursing, a clatter of footsteps, and there’s Rhodey back in Tony’s face. An icy blue glow leaks from his closed fist, drawing Tony’s focus like a magnet. “Give it,” Tony croaks, lifting his hand.

Rhodey nestles the reactor into Tony’s palm gingerly, like it’s going to break. These things survive _high-G maneuvers_ \-- they’re designed to exist inside a human body without _leaking hot plasma_ despite the superhero lifestyle -- so what the hell makes him think they’re fragile? Tony grabs it as soon as he can, dropping his hand back to the couch, and closes his eyes to gather his strength.

“Okay,” he gasps, shuddering with another small jolt. “M’ gonna release th’chestplate. Take it off, fast as you can. I’ll pull the bad one, an’ stick -- stick this in instead.” Deep breaths. Not much longer now. “D--don’t touch it, n’less I ask. Got it?”

Rhodey and Clint exchange glances. “If you’re gonna be hurting, shouldn’t one of us grab the --?”

_“No.”_ Tony’s eyes snap back open. “Nobody handles it b--but me. Nobody.”

“Got it.” For once, Clint doesn’t even try to joke. Rhodey looks less than thrilled with the idea, but he doesn’t argue. “Ready when you are, man.”

“’Kay.” He rests both hands on the breastplate. The less moving he has to do once the Suit’s off, the better. “Count of three, J.”

_“Understood, sir.”_ The AI’s all business now, and maybe that’s what JARVIS looks like when he’s scared. _“One... two…_ three.”

There’s a faint, reverberating _click_ as the Suit’s power couplings release the arc reactor, a soft _shuff_ as the breastplate slides free, and then Tony’s chest ignites. The reactor sparks white-hot, a magnesium flare _inside him_ \-- every muscle in his body seizes, jerked rigid and straining against the electric shriek, his back arches up out of the armor, he can’t move -- can’t move his _hands,_ can’t even unlock his fingers where they’re clawed around the new reactor -- he _has_ to move his hands, he strains against it, he _tries_ but they won’t obey him -- fingers won’t open, won’t grip the reactor, won’t pull it out and _make it stop --!_

The shock relents. His limbs unlock, collapsing back against the armor, and his vision goes cloudy gray with relief. He still hurts, his back a distant knot of pain, his neck and shoulder burning, but it’s nothing like the plasma fire he just came through. His fingers flex. This, he can --

\-- it wasn’t _over,_ he seizes again, and somewhere someone’s screaming --

The second shock doesn’t last as long, and when he comes down there are voices. _Rhodey,_ he realizes distantly. _Clint._ He should recognize the words, should open his eyes, but he’s on _fire_ and he can’t...

Metal fingers on his face. A voice very close. Familiar -- Rhodey, calling his name. “Tony! _Tony!_ God, Tony, can you -- Jesus Christ, wake _up!”_

He jerks with another split-second shock, an agonized sob breaking out of him. “Rhodey!” he gasps. “Fuck, get it -- make it _stop --”_

The fourth shock, impossibly, is worse than the first. The reactor is screaming, or maybe he is, a high-pitched whine that tears at his brain while electricity tears at his muscles. He can’t move, he can’t _breathe_ \-- his heart’s not beating, seized up like the rest of him -- and black blotches start to crawl across his vision, maybe he’ll pass out, oh God he wants to pass out --

It passes and he crumples, no strength left in him. The new reactor rings, bell-like, when it hits the floor. “Rhodey!” he sobs.

“I’m here, Tony, what can I --”

Another lesser shock punches the air out of his lungs. “Get it _out_ of me,” he chokes. “I can’t -- get it out, _fuck,_ get it _out --”_

_Click._

Hand on the reactor, dragging slide of metal, and everything stops.

Cold. Can’t breathe. Can’t move. _Obie._ Black rising from beneath, spattering his vision, tugging him down --

The new reactor slams home, and Tony jolts convulsively from the sheer shock of it. He’s swamped in coconut and metal and steady calm light, in the echoing lack of pain. His eyes are open but he’s storm-blind, light and color and shadow a meaningless welter that just makes his head spin, and there’s something rushing out through his veins, cold and warm and softening the edges of everything, tugging him down to where nothing’s confusing and nothing hurts...

This time, he goes willingly.

\---

“Tony? Tony.”

Nice try, Distant Voice, but Tony’s not buying it. He’s okay right where he is, in the dark and the quiet. He’s _earned_ some rest, okay?

_“Tony._ C’mon. I know you’re in there.”

True but irrelevant. He’s in here and he is not coming out. Wild horses, blah blah blah. Not if he has any say in the matter.

He’s beginning to think he doesn’t have a say, though. Things are getting distinctly less dark, morphing from featureless-nothing black into a reddish back-of-the-eyelids warmth. There’s a hum and a steady beep rising out of the quiet, not to mention that Distant Voice is still cajoling him. Bit by bit, he’s realizing that he has limbs. Looks like he’s waking up whether he likes it or not.

Goddammit.

“G’way,” he grumbles. Indistinct, but given the balancing act inherent in using his vocal apparatus while doing his best not to acknowledge its existence, he’ll take it. “Sleeping.”

Distant Voice, whose timbre is gradually linking up with a person in the muddle of Tony’s memory _(purple arrow perch sniper snark,_ he’ll come up with names eventually), has the gall to chuckle at him. “C’mon, Tony. Wakey wakey. The nice lady in the lab coat has some questions for you.”

If he’s stuck being aware of his fingers anyway, he might as well use it. Tony shapes one hand into an _entirely_ appropriate gesture.

...Oh. Bad idea. His hands are sore -- no, that’s a serious understatement, he actually kind of _hurts_ all the way from neck to fingertips. Curiosity (and concern, if he has to admit it) finally overcomes lethargy, and he blinks his eyes open. Miracle of miracles, it’s not painfully bright out there, and a few blinks are enough to shake his vision back down into place. The other senses troop reluctantly in behind it, and he can finally take stock of his surroundings.

He’s lying on his back in an eggshell-blue room, surrounded by the hum and beep of medical equipment. Starched sheets drape stiffly over his body, and there’s a bit of plastic pressed up under his nose. He’s beginning to recognize the cloudiness in his head as a side-effect of some serious medication, and a strange dull tightness nests between his ribs. _Infirmary,_ he decides. _Joy._

Then there’s movement, and he’s staring up into a bright purple mask. “Dude. You with me?”

It’s probably the drugs, but that mask is _fascinating_ right now. Instead of answering Clint (right, yes, Distant Voice has a name), he lifts one hand to touch it.

Okay, still a bad idea. The movement wakes up the tension in his chest, and apparently, when it isn’t half-asleep, it’s a deep burning pain that ebbs and flows with his breathing. He’s sore from scalp to toenails, too, his whole body aching like he’s one big bruise. Strangely, his chest’s still tight; when he concentrates a little he recognizes the elastic pressure of an ace wrap. Makes it kind of hard to breathe, actually. Must be for the --

_\-- rasps locking backwards in the housing, pressure tug_ wrench _and something_ pops --

\-- dislocation.

Suddenly, he’s wide awake. His rib, his chest, Technovore chewing up his reactor -- he doesn’t know how he _dealt_ with that. He’s got pretty clear memories of his stopgap measures (thank god for J), but after the bit with Pep punching out the Scientist Supreme it all gets pretty muddled. J’s voice and a stab of acceleration, the gleam off the War Machine, an agonizing electric shock -- the _reactor,_ what happened --?

Adrenaline hits him like a bucket of ice water and he bolts upright in the bed, scrabbling at the sheets and the bandages on his chest. There are hands on his shoulders, startled voices, but he’s not going anywhere until he’s seen it for himself -- until -- _there,_ the elastic wrapping parts under his fingers, and steady blue light pierces through.

The breath whooshes out of him. Adrenaline recedes in a cold, tingling wash and leaves him limp and panting, only half-aware of the burn in his chest and the hands easing him back down. “Swapped it,” he croaks, and is distantly surprised at the painful rasp of his voice. “Did I -- ?”

“You are well, Friend Tony.” The huge, gentle hands hands and the deep, resonant voice can only belong to one person. Hi, Thor. “You and the good Colonel did succeed in replacing your light, and you have been resting ever since.”

_Rhodey._ “Where’s --”

“Colonel Rhodes had to report back.” Another voice, directly above him (how many people _are_ there in here?); he swivels his eyes up to the petite woman, wearing a lab coat over her paramedic’s uniform, who’s just stuck a bendy straw in a glass of water. Jane Foster. Well, she and Thor _had_ been out on a date before everything went to hell. “Something about doing the paperwork for you. Here, drink some of this.”

Tony opens his mouth to protest, but finds it full of bendy-straw instead. Okay, yes, the water does feel really good on his raw, parched throat, he’ll give her that much. He doesn’t let it shut him up for long, though. “Pepper?”

“Back at Stark Tower, overseeing head-counts and starting the repairs.” Clint’s crossed ankles are suddenly propped up on the mattress right next to Tony’s elbow. He kicks back in his chair, grinning at Tony with the slight manic tinge of sudden relief. “And before you ask, Cap and Jan are beating the crap out of each other in the gym, Panther’s at his embassy or something, Hulk’s watching TV because he’s kind of a dick and doesn’t much care, and Thor and I are right here. Also, Pepper, Rhodey, and Jan are all probably going to kill me for not calling them the _instant_ you woke up.” He smirks at Tony. “You can relax. Everybody’s okay except you, you dumbass.”

“Good.” Tony takes a deep breath, which burns. “Not that I was worried or anything. Honest.”

Clint’s eyeroll is actually audible. “Sure, Tony. Sure you weren’t.”

Now that the concern (not _worry,_ nothing so flimsy as worry) for his team and his family is easing, Tony’s really starting to notice his assorted aches and pains. Some of them, he’s pretty sure he can identify, but others are less familiar, and breathing actually hurts enough that he’s getting concerned. “So what’s the damage?” he rasps.

Jane puts the glass aside and reaches for his IV. “You’ll be fine, but you do have some recovery ahead of you. How are you feeling?”

“Kinda sore. Tired. _What’s the damage?”_

Jane raises an eyebrow at his impatience, but at least she gets on with it. “The dislocated rib wasn’t too severe; it actually would have been fairly minor if you hadn’t reinjured it at least once. I reduced the joint again when you came in and wrapped your chest to support it. We’ll be icing that for a few days, then switching to heat.

“The electric shock was worse. You have electrical burns on your skin, through your chest wall, and across the surface of your lungs, and when we brought you here your pacemaker was dealing with some pretty pronounced cardiac arrhythmia. I don’t think you experienced any seizures -- your EEG’s more or less normal -- but you’re probably experiencing some muscle strains and soreness from the tetanic contraction.” She picks up a tablet and flips through its screens, skimming lines that she’s clearly already read. “We have you on your usual drugs for a reactor-related cardiac event, plus painkillers, a diuretic, an anti-inflammatory, and a lot of saline to deal with the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Oxygen, too, since your breathing’s doubly restricted.”

Tony grunts. He’s had worse. (If he can’t quite stop himself from resting a tentative hand atop the reactor, from letting its thrum echo through his fingers and his own heartbeat tap gently on his palm, that’s hardly relevant.) “And the reactor port?” 

Jane quirks a rueful half-smile. “That’s a little outside my expertise, I’ll admit, but JARVIS looked over your scans and he says it looks fairly normal. You’ll probably have some pain in the area until the dislocated joint’s ligaments tighten back up and the swelling goes down, but we can reduce some of that with the same treatment as for the dislocation itself.”

Okay. That’s… he can deal with that. He really has had a hell of a lot worse. Hell, he’s _fought_ with worse. He takes a deep breath (oh, that _is_ a nasal cannula, isn’t it) and lets it out, as slow and easy as he can manage. “Okay.”

Clint snorts. “ ‘Okay?’ That’s it?”

Tony blinks at him. “...Yeah? I mean, I’ve got questions, but I’ll need the fried reactor to answer them.”

“Not what I meant.” Clint’s eyebrows twist up, incredulous and… kind of pissed off. What did Tony do? “You seriously aren’t, like, concerned at all?”

Tony shrugs his good shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Clint flushes, his jaw snapping shut. He flings himself out of his chair, twitching in Tony’s direction for a second but then whirling aside to wrap his hands around the pole of an unused IV stand. “You’ve had _worse?!_ You -- Goddammit, Tony!”

It’s true, but before Tony can open his mouth to point that out, Clint rounds on him. “The couch was _smoking_ when we took you off it, Tony. _Smoking!_ You almost _caught fire!_ You do not get to brush this off, you asshole!”

...Well, the current had to have grounded somewhere, and the reinforced couch _does_ have a steel frame. The upholstery, though, that’s a stain-resistant synthetic with… a pretty high melting point. Something doesn’t add up. “Uh. Was it actually smoldering, or just melted?”

Clint turns _purple,_ surging forwards for an instant as if to go for Tony’s throat, and then jerks himself to a stop with a strangled shout. “You _sanctimonious jackass!_ Do you even -- _rrgh!”_ His hands clench into claws; he whirls again, shoulders hunched in a double knot of impotent rage, and stalks straight out the door.

Well, excuse _him._ Tony stares. “What the hell?” Is this what he gets for being a reasonable adult about this, for once in his life -- accepting what’s happened to him and figuring out how to deal? He honestly _has_ been through this before. Repeatedly. He knows what he’s doing, knows how long it’ll take to get back on his feet -- and it’s not like he _asked_ Technovore to jump him, what does Clint take him for? Besides, the smoke thing actually _is_ kind of important… 

Thor brushes past him, one warm solid hand resting for an instant on his brow -- “I will return, Tony, but I fear our friend Clinton has need of me.” -- before heading out after Clint. Drive-by comfort, what the hell, when did half his team turn into giant saps?

“You could have been killed, you know.”

Jane’s voice is quiet, gentle, maybe even a little sad. Tony tilts his head to look up at her, blinking. “Well, yeah. Workplace hazards. I’m a _superhero,_ we all run this kind of risk all the time, no reason to flip out about it now. I don’t know what he wants from me here.” He drags his fingertips over the sheet, determinedly ignoring the ache, and frowns. “Was the sofa actually smoking?”

Jane sighs through her nose, slow and quiet, and looks at him for a very long moment. “Yeah,” she says finally. “It was.”

_Smoking._ There’d been enough power running through him to heat that synthetic to its _smoke point._ He swats his way through the narcotic fuzziness to do a few calculations. Electrical resistance of upholstery versus Suit versus Tony, the reactor’s output voltage, melting and ignition points of comparable synthetics... 

Christ.

“How am I not dead?” he asks the ceiling.

Jane jolts back from him as if he’d bopped her on the nose. “Sorry?”

“That upholstery’s flame-retardant.” He tries for an illustrative gesture, but his arm protests loudly enough that he just ends up sort of flailing. “If it was smoking, I had to be getting almost two hundred milliamps, right through the chest. Should’ve fried me outright.” His eyebrows knit. Unless he’s seriously misremembered the resistivity of that particular nylon-acrylic blend. Or the grounding paths through the cuirass. Or… oh, fuck it, he’s on narcotics, he cannot be expected to think clearly about these things. He’s got an assistant to check him. Speaking of whom… “JARVIS?”

Silence. Then, hesitantly: _“Sir?”_

Tony frowns -- JARVIS does not hesitate for no reason -- and reformulates his next sentence on the fly. “...You okay?”

The AI hesitates again, even longer this time. _“You were in no danger of high-current injury, sir. The current was... successfully limited. At no time did you experience more than eighty milliamps.”_

“How…” Tony shakes his head. “Okay, I’m on drugs here, buddy, you’re gonna have to help me out. How is that even possible? With the reactor’s base potential --”

_“The reactor was not generating its base potential,”_ J says quietly. _“I… I was able to modulate its output, Sir; the armor gave me limited control. I elected to place a hard limit on current generation, at the cost of... less control over the voltage spikes.”_

...That explains a lot. Tony isn’t dead, JARVIS is hesitating, the couch was smoking, all because J stepped in. The AI managed to crank down the current on the shocks running through Tony -- made them _nonlethal,_ unlikely even to cause lasting injury, at the cost of making them even more painful than they could have been.

No wonder J is hesitating. That’s _guilt_ Tony hears in his AI’s voice. The guy had a choice: stand by and let Tony die, or step in and choose torture instead.

Tony drags his good elbow up under himself, heedless of the spiking burn in his chest and Jane’s alarmed yelp. “J! You can’t be -- you _saved my life,_ buddy, don’t you dare beat yourself up for it.” JARVIS is silent, and Tony shakes his head, fixing the nearest camera with a steady defiant glare. “C’mon, J. Look me in the eye and tell me I wouldn’t have made exactly the same decision for myself, if I’d had the chance. Seriously. Choice between hurting for a bit and _dying,_ do you really think I’m suicidal?”

_“I… no, I do not.”_ A hint of the AI’s usual dry humor creeps back into his tone. _“Not in the absence of highly-explosive experimental materials, at any rate.”_

Tony relaxes back into the pillow, smirking to cover for his shaky attempts at lowering himself gracefully. “See? You didn’t blow me up, or stop me from blowing myself up, or anything terrible like that. We’re good.”

_“We are indeed.”_ JARVIS manages, somehow, to convey a smile. _“Provided, of course, that you honor your own request. I assure you, I have no more desire than you do to handle another closed reduction using only your anti-G systems.”_

Jane _splutters._ “You did _what?_ How --” She plants her face in one palm, shaking her head minutely. “Honestly, JARVIS! I appreciate that you have more than just WebMD in that massive electronic brain, but _really,_ you should leave that to the professionals!”

_“It could not be helped, I’m afraid.”_ J manages nonetheless to sound contrite. _“The Iron Man was needed immediately.”_

“Places to go, people to save,” Tony mutters.

Jane sighs, massaging her forehead. “Just don’t do it again, all right? You wouldn’t have been much good to your team if something had gone wrong.”

Tony only answers her with a noncommittal grunt. There’s no way he can make a promise like that, not when there’s just as likely going to be a friend or a teammate or a _city_ on the line next time, but telling Jane that isn’t going to help _anyone’s_ stress levels. They can argue later.

Movement in the doorway draws his eye. Excellent, a distraction -- not so excellent, it’s Clint. The archer slouches against the frame, twirling a headless arrow shaft around one finger. “Hey, Shellhead.”

Clint’s mouth is quirked around layers of emotion that Tony has no idea how to parse. Exasperation, sheepishness maybe… Warily, he acknowledges the greeting with a nod.

Clint stares at him for a moment, then heaves a sigh and shoves his weight up off the doorframe. “You’re still an ass,” he tells Tony, pulling the visitor chair back around and straddling it. “I just want you to know that.”

“What Clint’s trying to say is _We’re glad you’re okay,_ with a side of _Quit scaring us like that.”_ Tony’s eyes snap back up to the doorway, just in time to get a faceful of black and yellow as Jan wraps him up in a hug. _“Are_ you okay?”

“I’m --” He catches Clint’s glare out of the corner of his eye, and revises in mid-sentence. “I will be. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Good.” Jan lets Tony go, just in time for him to watch Steve settle at parade rest behind her. Thor’s back too, and he brought T’challa with him; behind them, a flash of green and an aggrieved snort suggest they even talked Hulk into making a visit. Jan smiles, and it’s so clear and honest that something in Tony’s battered heart eases palpably.

“Gang’s all here, huh?” he mumbles inanely.

Thor grins. “We would all see you well, Friend. Well do we know the impact of honorable battle wounds.”

“And you really did scare about five years off my life,” Jan adds, raising an eyebrow. At her shoulder, Steve shifts his weight to the other foot, nodding in silent concord. Tony might even care about his opinion, except that people who _aren't aging_ don't get to use that metaphor, so he can shut up right there.

“So cut it out,” Clint mutters, making Tony drag his glare away from Steve. “At this rate you’ll have her keeling over of old age sometime next week.”

Tony snorts. Tries to. It's a snort, okay, it counts. “Says the guy who keeps jumping off buildings.”

“Both of you, let it be.” T’challa crosses his arms, eyeing them both like they're misbehaving preschoolers. "Tony is alive, and will recover. Is it not enough?"

Clint opens his mouth to retort, but pauses instead. His shoulders drop, and he looks back to Tony with a rueful half-smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.

“Just... Hang in there, man, okay? We’ve got your back.”

He’s offering a fistbump. Tony grins, and even though he's tired, even though he aches, he lifts his hand to bump it. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you do.”

\---  
\------  
\---

END

\---


End file.
